Shockwaves
by cardiogod
Summary: It comes in small bursts, quiet shockwaves, fleeting moments." Post Bond in the Boot.


Title: Shockwaves

Author: cardiogod

Rating: PG

Pairing: Booth/Brennan

Word Count: 862

Spoilers: Through 5.02 The Bond in the Boot.

Summary: It comes in small bursts, quiet shockwaves, fleeting moments.

Disclaimer: Not mine, please don't sue.

Author's note: I'm a bit rusty, here, so forgive anything that seems off. First foray into fic since All the King's Horses. This is unbetaed, so all errors are mine and mine alone.

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It comes in small bursts, quiet shockwaves, fleeting moments.

It exists in a murmured "baby," an "atta boy" punch in the shoulder, a book for imbeciles, a near-caress under his kitchen sink.

She does not know what "it" is; she cannot, for all of her extensive vocabulary, find a word to define it.

And yet she feels it anyway.

She's been doing that a lot lately, feeling.

By "lately," she means since the brain tumor.

That hits her in waves too.

Booth had a brain tumor.

Booth almost died.

Again.

She hears strains of Cyndi Lauper and Stewie Griffin and the endless, harsh clicking and beeping and whirring of too many hospital rooms in too short a time span.

It comes in moments.

The clock ticks and she finds she is waiting again.

For what, she is not sure. For something.

For that thing that she feels but can't define.

They sit on his couch, drinking beer, talking about flat-screens, and waiting for the plumber.

"Come on, Bones. One-hundred and three inches. That's a lotta TV."

She smiles and feels it again.

She remembers a conversation in the back of the SUV about televisions and houses and "we" and "our" and seven-not-five-layer dip.

She takes a sip of her beer.

"I fail to understand why one would need so large a screen."

"You just do, Bones."

"But I do not watch television. I find it to be both tedious and counterproductive. I would much rather, for example, work on the outline for my next book than waste my time watching television."

"Well then you can work on your book and I can watch the Rangers on one hundred and three inches of plasmatic beauty and we'll both be happy."

There he goes again, insinuating himself into her life.

She doesn't mind it as much as she used to.

Now she thinks it almost sounds like a good idea, and she mentally calculates what wall would be best suited, geometrically, to hold a much-larger-than-necessary television that she will never watch but he will.

Small bursts, quiet shockwaves, and fleeting moments.

Cam is the one who finally puts a name to it.

"You're in love with Seeley."

She sips her wine. She does not deny it.

Things are changing.

It is a week after Cam's proclamation. He smiles at her over pie at the diner and she feels it again, tugging and insistent and overwhelming.

Booth is alive. He is alive and in front of her and trying once more to convince her that cooked fruit is not a culinary travesty.

She wants to kiss him.

She doesn't.

Three days later, she does.

They are in the car (they are always in the car) and she realizes that she doesn't want to wait anymore because Booth had a brain tumor and Booth almost died and she just doesn't have time to waste.

They are arguing about something (they are always arguing about something) and she leans over and presses her lips to his (the car is not moving, that would be irresponsible and she is nothing if not responsible).

It is not dramatic or earth-shattering or momentous.

It is subtle, more of a progression than a change, and the shift in her world is slight but profound.

Small bursts and quiet shockwaves.

They begin kissing each other.

Nothing changes.

Well, things change, but only the details. Fundamentally, she is the same woman and he is the same man and their relationship is unaltered.

Because if she's being honest with herself, it was always headed this way. She couldn't see it and he couldn't see it (Angela always saw it) but there had been no doubt that they'd end up here, on the brink of defining that which they both struggle to deny.

They have always been lovers, committed to each other ("You're the only FBI agent I want to work with."), and intimate ("I feel close to you.") and this thing, whatever it is (be it love or something else), doesn't change that. Can't change that.

It comes in small bursts, quiet shockwaves, fleeting moments.

It exists in a murmured "baby" after passion has crested over them and they lie in its wake. It exists in an "I love you" that isn't followed by professionalism or an "atta girl" punch. It exists in an argument about religion ("Lazarus isn't a zombie either, Bones.") and a bite of cherry pie ("I find cooked cherries to be slightly less offensive than cooked apples."). It exists in a one-hundred and three inch flat-screen TV that she never watches, and in the seven layer dip that sits in her fridge.

It exists without definition, without labels, without convention.

It changes nothing and it changes everything.

Small, quiet, fleeting.

Enough.

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End file.
